


sweetest happiness (the one we share)

by DearHanhan



Category: OneShot (Video Game)
Genre: I wanted to see how french I could make a our sweet and beloved author, Nonverbal Communication, Oh hey there's a tag for that, Other, dedicated to jenny cause hell yeah, so have some french author w/ a hint of hc nonverbal cuteness, this is basically just really indulgent writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 11:44:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12189375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearHanhan/pseuds/DearHanhan
Summary: Focusing intently, you feel the way his fingers dip and swirl, following the natural curve of your hip.Ma moitié, his nails scratch into your hip bone.Mon ange en sucre, his thumb scrawls onto your ribs, brushing up against the swell of your upper body.Mon trésor, his fingers trace out, the words he’s engraved into your very being.





	sweetest happiness (the one we share)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bunnysharks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnysharks/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le baiser est la plus sûre façon de se taire en disant tout.   
>  _A kiss is the surest way to quiet oneself while saying everything._   
>  (Guy de Maupassant.)

Fingers lightly trace the stray strands of hair brushing against the nape of your neck. You shiver at the touch, feeling goosebumps in response, but the presence is familiar. Soothing. Your form, previously hunched over the sketching pad situated on the sleek metallic drafting table, straightens up a bit. The touch returns, firmly pressing down on the hard knots that had built up, and you struggle to continue your sketching.

A particularly satisfying sweep of your shoulder muscles makes you sigh, smiling into the pencil you’ve started chewing. Your eyes take in the dark lines of the fox child’s tail scampering along the edges of your pages, the shaded scribbles of a dark-haired curly child perched in the corner, and the straight and purposeful lines of the darling robot in the center decked in your own blue scarf, the one draped on the shelf nearby.

You take it in, you breathe it out. You look, you wonder.

From the corner of your eye, you watch as _he_ leaned forward, resting his chin on the peak of your shoulder. He, the Author, the beloved man of the world, the other half of your soul. His hair falls over his eyes, long and unkempt from days; in the dim light, it appears both dark and light, both brown and silver. With a steady artist’s hand, you reach up to thread your hands into his locks, reveling in the ability to finally touch him.

To have more than just phone calls and video chats. To have more than just blown kisses and the mere scent of him in your room. To have him _here_.

It makes you yearn to be closer. You nudge his resting chin with your shoulder, the hair lining his jaw brushing against your own bare skin. A noise rumbles in his throat, his tanned Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, but he allows you enough room to finally turn and face him. 

He’s a sight to behold. His hair, dark and silver and something in between, has grown longer than you last remembered feeling. The stubble has grown thicker too, and his gaze is only half-mast, drenched with tiredness borne of the comfort of this familiar home the two of you had built together.

He lets you drink him up with your eyes. When you finally meet his gaze, it too is warm and welcoming. Even though you were the one who had had to stay home… Reuniting with him always _does_ feel like returning to your true home. Like your souls had finally become one once more, instead of split unevenly and separated by galaxies.

Sitting up straight, you smile. This smile is what you press into the corner of his lips, firmly leaning towards him to capture his attention more intently. Somehow, you get the feeling that he’s only _allowing_ you the pleasure of giving your first kisses to him; the Author is nothing but a giving man, seldom allowing other people the pleasure of giving _themselves_ up to him. He’s the type of person to give up his heart and life rather than _take_ what was his. It’s part of why you love him.

It’s also the reason for why you encouraged his touch, encouraged him to take strength in the heart and soul you shared with him freely. A man who kept giving and giving would soon have nothing, not unless he received more abundantly from another. He poured his love out, and you would pour more so back into him. This beautiful, dearly beloved man.

You press another kiss to his lips, another kiss filled with overflowing happiness. Against his lips, you whisper your greetings. “Welcome home, _mon cœur_.” His already dark complexion darkens still from the flush that graces his cheekbones, and all it truly accomplishes is the feeling of giddiness in your heart.

His hands wander from your shoulders, sliding into your hair, giving them the softest of tugs towards his waiting form. Willingly, you meet him halfway, taking delight in the infinitely slow kiss he deigns to give you. He doesn’t do much else that lean into you as if to reassure himself of your presence. You take the time to relearn the geography, mapping out the weariness in his unshaved jawline, the tremble of his Adam’s apple. Somewhere along the line, he stops kissing you. He keeps his lips pressed against yours though, and you open your eyes to hazily wander.

Sweet and dear, Author’s lips curve into a smile when his dark gaze pins your own. Without speaking, without making a noise, he murmurs against your mouth. Soundless words of endearments fall freely from his lips to your own. The warmth of his fingers finds a sliver of uncovered flesh at your waist, where your shirt had ridden up too high. Slowly, they trace meaningless swirls on your skin till you’re left shivering against him.

All too soon, you realize that they’re not meaningless at all.

Focusing intently, you feel the way his fingers dip and swirl, following the natural curve of your hip. _Ma moitié_ , his nails scratch into your hip bone. _Mon ange en sucre_ , his thumb scrawls onto your ribs, brushing up against the swell of your upper body. _Mon trésor_ , his fingers trace out, the words he’s engraved into your very being. 

Eventually, he relaxes completely into your touch, the muscles in his toned body unraveling. He sags against you, seemingly more tired than he had realized. Carefully, you reach out to thread your hands with his own, squeezing them tight. As tired as he probably is, you can feel the way he smirks, likely knowing from previous experience with your fingers of the fact that the charcoal and traces of pencil smudges would undoubtedly transfer onto his own tanned skin. It was your own way of marking where you had already explored, where your hands had already checked this adventurous man’s wellbeing.

The Author, this man, the most beloved of your heart, could do nothing but calm at the touch of your charcoal smudged palms. He presses his lips softly to your temple, chaste kisses imbued with strength. He presses another just below your brow, where your lashes bordered the tops of your cheekbones. He presses another to your jaw, ever so gently.

Finally, after what feels like hours, he deigns to finally gather you up in his arms. After many years together, you know to not startle when he picks you up with ease, with his hands easing your legs around his waist. Even if you want to struggle and deny him the chance to carry you, in deference to the fact that he genuinely looked bone tired, he looks far too stubborn about even _this_. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, draping yourself so thoroughly over him as if to become one with him. 

He presses a kiss against the hollow between your collar bones, slowly carrying you away from the drafting table, the one that he had built for you, all the way to the bed at the center of the room, draped with multiple quilts and scarves you had fashioned yourself.

There, he sets you down at the edge of the bed; you tug him down with you, helping him remove the jacket from his shoulders and the button-down shirt from his body. Finally, you are left to curl up into each other’s grasps till even eagle-eyed observers wouldn’t be able to tell where one of you started and the other ended. 

He kisses you again in the darkness while your mind wanders. The surprise leaves you breathlessly giggling, returning the kiss with your own. His eyes glimmer with promises, of more days spent together, of more warmth than you could ask for.

Again, he kisses you, kisses the curved corner of your lips. Onto them, he breathes out his greetings. “I’m home, _mon cœur_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Bunnysharks, who unknowingly pulled me back into the world of story writing even while we were strangers. Thanks for being a real swell inspiration, hun!
> 
> tumblr: [dear-hanhan](http://dear-hanhan.tumblr.com/)


End file.
